Will Thomas - Fatal Enquiry

When she was gone, instinct took over. There were questions to which I wanted answers, answers which might be found in Sofia’s luggage. Now that I was able to move about again, if slowly, I searched the rooms.

Rummaging through the dresser drawers, I marveled at the sheer variety of feminine articles of which I had little knowledge, items that buttoned and hooked and laced, some stiff and some hard, others so thin and silky as to be almost gossamer. Though I was alone in the room, I felt embarrassed searching through Sofia’s intimate apparel, but thought it likely she might hide something of importance therein. It proved to be a waste of precious time.

I was in no condition for a strenuous search, but that was what was needed after the drawers revealed little of interest save that Miss Nightwine purchased her foundation garments from expensive places in Paris, as near as I could tell. Like her father, she had excellent taste, and must require a good deal of money to live.

The first thing that made me realize that all was not as it seemed was her parasol. A superficial glance at it revealed nothing out of the ordinary, but as soon as I lifted it I saw the shaft was made of metal and not ash or malacca. Raising it by the middle, I immediately realized that the tip end was heavier than the handle. A sharp tug upon the tip removed it, revealing a thin needle about four inches long. A tiny hole at the bottom showed it for what it was: the tip of a syringe. A bit of fumbling on the shaft opened a hollow compartment, and farther up near the handle was a small catch which, when pulled out, formed a kind of trigger. I put it down again as I had found it and continued my search of the room.

It was under the wardrobe, pushed far to the back, that I found what I was looking for, a thin case tightly squeezed into the small space. I put a pillow on the floor and lay on it in order to work the case from its location, and when I did, was rewarded with the realization that it was locked. True to form, the woman preferred to keep her secrets.

No matter. There were hairpins to hand and I was not unacquainted with picking locks. It took precious moments, and I shall never again believe stories in which the hero uses a hairpin to open a locked door with relative ease, but eventually I got the thing open. Immediately I wished I hadn’t. Once it was unlocked, I could not stuff the demons and evils back in fast enough. I sat on the bed pillow and contemplated the array of weapons in front of me.

The case belonged in the Black Museum at Scotland Yard. Exhibit 43, Case of Professional Assassin, Female: one unassembled air rifle; vials and ampoules containing what must surely be poisons; a thin silk rope for climbing and garroting; various small spring-loaded devices for shooting projectiles; and a few weapons I had no clue about whatever.

No wonder Poole hadn’t found any evidence of Nightwine killing anyone. His daughter had done it for him. It was she who had delivered the package to O’Muircheartaigh’s offices, and met Lord Clayton in the folly on that dark night. Then I found a slip of paper squeezed in between the ampoules and the velvet-lined case. It was folded over, so I opened and read it. It was an address: 821 Mile End Road. Immediately my shoulders sagged and I leaned back. The possibility that she had ended the life, aye, and the ministry of that fine man, and the work he did against all odds in a section of London that needed him desperately, was unspeakable. It was a near fatal wound to my psyche, the only part of me that had not been injured so far, and was until that moment still intact.

She came in then, her arms full of packages. I did not bother to hide or to look like I wasn’t searching through her things. I am an investigator, an enquiry agent. It is what I do, what I am, for good or ill. I am innately curious. I could not stop myself, even if it meant finding out things I wish I had never known.

“Oh,” she said, putting down her burdens on the bed. She’d brought back some treats for me, for us, but I never found out what they were. She had aplomb, I’ll give her that.

She was not shocked or angry and made no pretense to be. Had she been emotional, it would have made her less the consummate professional. In fact, I would have preferred it had she shied something at my head.

“Did you kill Brother Andrew?” I blurted into the deafeningly quiet room. I lifted one of the glass ampoules, which held a green-colored liquid. “Did you jab him in the stomach with one of these?”

“No,” she responded. “It’s meant for the leg. It was designed to kill someone in a crowd, or someone highly dangerous, which, of course, the Reverend McClain was.”

“It must be convenient to be able to turn off one’s emotions as if with a gas cock. I’m not certain I could do it.”

“You have not had the training I’ve been subjected to. Are we going to have a row?”

“I’d like to yell at you right now, but I don’t think it would do much good. I don’t think I could convince you of anything, and I honestly believe the circumstances of your life were not of your own choosing. You are what your father made you.”

“But you do want to leave as soon as possible,” she said.

“Oh, yes. Whatever this was, it is over.”

“Nothing I can say will make you forgive me? I was not aware that the Reverend McClain meant so much to you.”

“He was a friend,” I said, putting the vial of green liquid back in place in the brown velvet of the case. “More than that, he was a good man.”

“I wish,” she began, and as she said it I wondered what it was she really wished, what regrets she had or whether she was merely saying what I wanted to hear. “I wish I could only kill men who desperately need killing, instead of disposing of obstacles to my father. I am leaving him, you know. But I’m afraid it’s too late for Brother Andrew.”

“What is it you really want, Sofia? Why did you bring me here?”

“I wanted to be with someone my own age who wasn’t tainted by the world, a nice, normal young man who might help me attain some sort of ordinary life.”

“I don’t think I am untainted by the world,” I stated. “I have my own demons to fight.”

“Yes, but you are succeeding. You’re resilient. You heal quickly.”

“You helped heal me.”

“Yes. Now I was hoping you would heal me.”

“I’m not sure I can. You need more than I’m able to give. You might even require an alienist,” I pointed out.

“If I find one he would lock me away. I’ve killed several people. And the worst thing is that I like it. I derive satisfaction in a duty well done, and in besting someone larger and stronger than I. That’s what I was thinking when I killed the Reverend McClain. He was heavyweight champion of the world. It was only afterward that I realized he was also a good man. Do you know how many good men I have met in my life? Just the two of you. And you see, I had to kill him, because I was not able to kill you.”

I instantly recalled the raised parasol at our first meeting. “You were sent to kill me, but you didn’t.”

“I had to make up for it by killing the Reverend McClain.” She sat on the edge of the bed, folding her hands in her lap. “Isn’t it ironic that the very principles that attracted me to you are the very ones that are making you leave?”

I wanted to say something then, but I couldn’t think of what, and the moment passed.

“I’m not all bad. Tell me you don’t hate me,” she said. “That you don’t thoroughly despise me for what I’ve done. I won’t ask you to forgive me.”

I closed the lid of the case and slid it back under the wardrobe. Then I stood. She looked as fragile as the blown glass in the ampoules I’d been handling, though every bit as deadly. She desperately wanted something from me I was not able to give.